


Cyfaill cywir mewn ing y'i gwelir

by OlyaNeverWrites



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: But not in a canonical way, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Concussions, Gen, Julia Rothman is fed up with her stupid husband, Yassen Gregorovich just wants to get out of there, an unlikely partnership is born, crack that went down more of a black comedy route, monologues, non-graphic references to past rape/non-con, pre-Julia and Yassen take over the world
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29659458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OlyaNeverWrites/pseuds/OlyaNeverWrites
Summary: After a childhood marked by instability and insecurity, Julia Rothman marries young, to a man who is charming, wealthy, and adores her. He seems too good to be true. He is.When Mr. Rothman visits an old business acquaintance, Vladimir Sharkovsky, Yassen Gregorovich and Julia Rothman find common ground. They are both trapped with cruel men and Julia has been looking for a way out for a long time. She’s heard her husband’s phone calls—she knows he’s planning something big. She’s heard whispers of a new organization called SCORPIA. If Mr. Rothman gets that kind of power, she will never be free. So she decides to take him out and take his place, and she wants Yassen to come with her. They make a deal. They’ll take out Sharkovsky and Mr. Rothman together. And then Julia Rothman will take her husband’s place on the executive board.
Relationships: No pairings
Comments: 11
Kudos: 27





	Cyfaill cywir mewn ing y'i gwelir

**Author's Note:**

> The timelines in the _Alex Rider_ books are ambiguous but it’s implied that SCORPIA has been around for 5-10 years before Yassen joins. This story places SCORPIA’s founding at a few years later than that. I have rationalized this to myself as the effect of not having a trained-as-a-spy Julia Rothman helping to found the board, as she was held back by her dickhead husband, and because the plot demanded it.

Yassen knew to never meet the eye of a guest. Several poorly-healed fractures were a testament to how thoroughly that lesson had been trained into him. There was nothing remarkable about the latest people to visit Vladimir Sharkovsky’s dacha. An older man who talked too loudly and spoke Russian with an accent—English, perhaps?—and his much-younger wife, dark-haired and pale-skinned, who sat next to him, icy, quiet, and aloof.

Yassen served these new guests silently then retreated into a shadowy corner of the dining room. Sharkovsky was in a mood to order Yassen about tonight, he could tell. If only to show this foreigner just how absolute his power was over everyone in the dacha.

The conversation was a mix of English and Russian and Yassen didn’t follow much of it. In fact, he would have preferred to tune it out entirely. It always came down to money, conflict, and murder anyhow.

Inattention was not a viable strategy when one worked for Vladimir Sharkovsky. Yassen had been taught that lesson comprehensively, too.

Yassen noticed, therefore, Sharkovsky straighten, stiffen and puff out his chest. This posture invariably meant Sharkovsky wanted Yassen to bring out alcohol expensive enough to impress the guests and in a great enough quantity that the husband might get drunk and say something Sharkovsky could leverage against him later. Yassen glided silently forward, though, given the choice, he would have preferred to dissolve into the carpet.

Sharkovsky snapped his fingers and laughed harshly when he saw that Yassen already stood by his shoulder, head bowed. “Drinks,” he snapped. As Yassen walked into the next room, he heard Sharkovsky and his guest laughing, harsh and hoarse. “No better than a broken animal…”

Yassen tried to collect himself as he assembled the drinks. Quickly, because whatever punishment Sharkovsky deemed appropriate for tardiness would no doubt be excruciating. He should be used to this. He _should_. His hands should not tremble so. Not after almost three years.

When Yassen returned to the room, Sharkovsky appeared to still be in a good mood. He served Sharkovsky and the other man first. No chivalry here; Sharkovsky and the other man wielded the power, and thus they deserved the first pick. The woman was ornamental. An accessory. In Sharkovsky’s mind—which was as good as law here—she was lucky to share the table with them.

When Yassen did finally place the tumbler in front of the woman, she breathed “thank you,” so quietly Yassen would have thought he’d imagined it if he hadn’t seen the woman’s mouth move.

Yassen’s English was limited to a few words and phrases, but he recognized those words, the only ones she had uttered since dinner started. It seemed almost accidental. And indeed, the moment she spoke, her husband snapped his head towards her and fixed her with a withering expression.

Sharkovsky broke out into an obnoxious guffaw. A heartbeat later, the husband joined in. The woman’s face remained serene and still, but Yassen caught a flicker of something else. Something he almost recognized. Was it fear?

“Thank him!” Sharkovsky sputtered. “That’s like thanking a pig for rolling in his own filth. _Thank_ him!” He wiped his eyes and nodded towards his guest. “Perhaps your wife prefers them without the gray hairs, after all, old man! Though this one looks young enough to be your grandchild.” The husband’s expression made it clear he was torn between feeling insulted by the jab about his age and pleased that Sharkovsky had joined in bullying his wife.

Sharkovsky tossed back the rest of his drink, then grabbed the collar of Yassen’s shirt and jerked his head down so his face was level with the glinting golden candelabras flickering up and down the table. It took all of Yassen’s discipline to say and do nothing while keeping his balance.

Sharkovsky tsked with annoyance, clearly dissatisfied, and a sharp blow to the back of Yassen’s legs—which still bore fresh marks from the whipping he had received the previous afternoon (somehow, the half-day delay of the guests’ arrival had been _his_ fault)—sent him to his knees.

Yassen kept his eyes fixed on the silverware. Anywhere else would be asking for punishment. Sharkovsky gave him a sharp shake and grabbed his face in a bruising grip, twisting it to face the guest and his wife. Yassen kept his eyes resolutely downcast.

“Shall I send him to her for the night?” Sharkovsky asked the man. “Let her have some fun? Look at him,” he added sharply to Yassen with another shake. Yassen reluctantly looked up and focused on keeping his face blank as untouched snow in the winter forests to the north. The man was eyeing him with obvious disgust.

Sharkovsky looked at Yassen's blank expression and chortled. "The stupid boy stares at a new gate like a ram."

“If the child is as slow as he seems, she might finally have someone she can relate to. Send him to her,” the man decided, flashing a sharp grin at his wife. Her face held the same expression it had for most of the dinner, an almost dreamy blankness.

Yassen wondered whether she was under the influence of some tranquilizing drug. He could not blame her, with a husband like that. Though the thought of being so vulnerable voluntarily made his stomach clench. 

“Excellent. If you have any complaints, take them to me and they will be dealt with. Or you can handle them in yourself if you wish, though I would expect compensation for any lost labor.” This was all in Russian, for Yassen’s benefit he had no doubt. There was nothing to fuel a healthy fear like the reminder that one’s death could be sold to the whims of any of the parade of criminals that passed through the dacha. 

Talk moved on to other things but Yassen stayed on his knees, Sharkovsky’s hand resting proprietarily on his shoulder, right above one of the slices where the leather had lashed deepest. Occasionally, when the husband said something Sharkovsky did not like, he squeezed. The pained hitch in Yassen’s breathing seemed a balm to whatever blow the man’s ego had suffered during the exchange. The wife’s face remained blank the entire time and she did not speak again. 

*** 

Later that night, when dinner was cleared, dishes scrubbed, and alcohol put away, Yassen was sent to the wife’s room. She and her husband were living in separate guest suites; no doubt, the husband was enjoying the company of some of Sharkovsky’s female staff. 

Yassen paused at the door before he knocked. Perhaps he could spare the extra minute, perhaps not, but he needed it. He knew what was going to happen—or rather, what had been intimated. He’d been placed in that position often enough, with Sharkovsky or with other visitors. He still hated it. 

He was not sure what to expect of the silent wife. Some guests were disgusted by the idea of taking advantage of someone so young and sent him away. Others chose to take their feelings of impotence out on those even more powerless than they were. This guest had thanked him and been punished for it. Would she use him to feel the illusion of control after the shame of the dinner? 

The lashes on his back prickled. She could also choose a more permanent way of venting her frustrations, exert power over him she could only dream of having over other areas of her life. Namely, the husband who Yassen distrusted even more than her. 

With that happy thought, he knocked. 

The woman opened the door; she was no longer dressed in her formal dinner gown. Instead, she wore a bathrobe cinched around her waist. She had removed the bejeweled clips from her hair and it was now tumbling in loose waves around her shoulders. Her feet were bare. 

She opened the door wider, stood back, and beckoned him in. She still hadn’t said a word. 

The door shut with a click as Yassen tried to occupy as small a space as possible. He felt the woman’s eyes on him, appraising. He stared at a small, dark stain in the rug as she moved slowly into the room, circling him. Eventually, she stood in front of him again. 

She reached out to touch his chin and tilted his face so that Yassen had little choice but to look into her eyes. He tried not to flinch, not to make the stiffness that had set in from the moment she opened the door too obvious. The sharpness he saw in her eyes (a far cry from the benign vacancy in the dining room) suggested that she would not be so easily fooled. 

She released his chin, letting her hand drop to her side, and took a step back. “My name is Julia Rothman,” she said carefully. Her Russian was also accented, but more pleasant than her husband’s. “I am visiting with my husband as a guest of Vladimir Sharkovsky. I understand that Mr. Sharkovsky has offered your company and services as part of his hospitality.” 

Well, that settled that. Yassen felt his mind start to close up, the beginnings of that hazy dissociation that he experienced after the first time Sharkovsky had decided a new style of punishment was in order. It was still unpleasant, but for once, his mind had managed to come up with a helpful way to cope. 

If Julia Rothman noticed any change in Yassen, she did not remark on it. She continued to speak. “Whatever the spirit of that offer may have been, it is not one I am interested in. Whatsoever. I have no desire to…” she seemed to struggle for the right words. “…use you in this way. I simply would enjoy spending time in the presence of someone who is not my husband and offering you a comfortable place to spend the night.” 

Whatever Yassen had expected, it was not this. Sharkovsky’s guests would never behave like this. Never. Which meant that there must be some catch, some other horribly creative price to pay. 

“I do ask one thing…” and there it was. Yassen braced himself. “…I hope you could tell me a little bit about yourself.” 

What? Yassen blinked. His confusion must have been obvious because she spoke again. 

“Let’s start somewhere easy. Could you tell me your name?” 

His name? This was getting more confusing by the second. He realized the pause had gone a little too long. “Yassen,” he replied. He hated how scared his voice sounded. 

She nodded encouragingly. “Yassen. That is not traditionally Russian. Is Yassen your real name?” Yassen shook his head mutely. This was quickly veering into dangerous territory. “Can you share your real name? Your full name?” 

“Yasha Gregorovich.” Yassen’s reply was almost a whisper. The name sounded like he was hearing it almost for the first time, it felt so distant from himself. 

“Yasha,” said Julia thoughtfully. “That is a lovely name.” She looked at Yassen more closely. Her eyes flicked down to his hands and up again. Yassen hadn’t realized, but when she had spoken his name, his _real_ name, they had clenched into fists. “Do you feel more comfortable being called Yassen?” 

Yassen nodded automatically. He felt like he was understanding less and less of what was going on. 

“Thank you for sharing that, Yassen. How old are you?” 

Good question. Yassen wasn’t sure; he asked her the date. She told him. It hit him like a jolt of electricity. _Had it really been that short? That long?_ The streets of Moscow felt like a lifetime ago, and Estrov belonged to some other boy who he did not know. 

“Seventeen,” Yassen said softly. He was seventeen. 

“Seventeen?” Mrs. Rothman sounded incredulous. Yassen flinched. She almost sounded angry. He would not lie about this, but if she did not like the answer, she might decide to take Sharkovsky up on his offer to have him punished after all. 

She noticed his reaction immediately, and her voice took on a more soothing tone. “I believe you Yassen, you have not done anything wrong. I just thought you were younger.” 

She glanced at his body. Yassen knew what she was seeing. Knew it and hated it. Small, too small, painfully thin. He knew that his large eyes and long lashes made him look younger, too. He could sense Mrs. Rothman’s eyes on him. Concerned, pitying, disgusted, he was sure. Nothing good. 

“Can you tell me how you came to be here?” 

Yassen froze. This… was not something he could do. The face and room felt like a mirage he was seeing through, a shimmering, translucent image layered over flashes of beatings and hungry eyes and anthrax sores. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. 

A sudden, soft pressure on his shoulder made him jerk away, breathing hard. He blinked and his vision cleared. He was back in the dacha. One of the guest rooms. Trapped with nowhere and no way to run, as he had been for years. _Years_. With the wife of Sharkovsky’s latest visitor several feet away, looking at him evenly. 

To her credit, Julia didn’t appear the least bit surprised or alarmed. Instead, she looked thoughtful. Yassen,” she said slowly. Carefully. As though he were a frightened, injured animal. “Are you happy here?” 

Yassen was so taken by surprise he let out a halting laugh. He glanced at her quickly and returned his gaze to the floor. She was serious. He shook his head. 

Julia nodded as if it was the answer she had expected. It would take an idiot to expect something else, and she was not an idiot. “I would like to invite you to come with me when I leave this place,” she said with deliberate casualness. 

Yassen’s mind stalled for a moment, trying to make sense of the unexpected offer. He had only seen a few glimpses of Mr. Rothman during the afternoon and for dinner, but that seemed like an unlikely outcome—even if Sharkovsky were willing to part with one of his favorite whipping boys. His expression must have told her what he was thinking, or she could read his mind. “I know. Mr. Rothman is not the charitable type. But I do not plan for that to be an issue—him or Sharkovsky. Not for much longer.” She met Yassen’s eyes. Her dark gaze was piercing. 

Yassen knew what she was asking. Knew how horrifying the consequences would be if they failed. But he couldn’t help himself. To be free of Sharkovsky? Forever? He felt the tiniest flutter of hope, a sensation he thought had been crushed years before under the heavy weight of death and abuse, in his chest. 

“If I help you, will you take me away from here? Do you swear it?” His voice sounded detached, alien. He felt as though some ghost was inhabiting his body, controlling his lips and tongue and vocal cords and the flow of air through his lungs and throat. 

Julia nodded. “I promise, Yassen. If you agree to this, I will get you out.” 

He could very well be consigning himself to torture and death. He did not want to casually toss his parents’ sacrifice away. But this was not a life. “I will help you.” 

***

Sharkovsky used the dacha’s opulent bathhouse in the afternoons. When he was conducting business with important guests, they were invited (an invitation that would not bode well for future negotiations were it to be turned down.) The steam, water, and privacy the space demanded would ensure nobody was near enough to hear if something happened to go wrong. 

Several hours before the usual bathhouse time, Yassen was called to Sharkovsky’s study. 

He felt dread curl in his stomach. Perhaps the conversation from the previous night had not gone as unnoticed as he had thought. 

Sharkovsky stood from his desk, his eyes glinting, expression cruel. 

“Come here, boy.” 

Yassen numbly walked forward. 

Sharkovsky stepped out from behind the desk. Heavy footfalls. Heavy fists. Before Yassen could react, he felt a vicious blow that sent his head snapping, ears ringing. It felt as though someone was laughing at him. Not Sharkovsky. The voice was younger. Pained. Male. A sound nearly recognized, nearly forgotten. It echoed through his head. 

The world was spinning. Of course, this would happen before he got the chance to escape. Of course. That fleeting hope had been foolish. He would never leave. 

***

An indeterminate amount of time later Yassen lay curled on the floor of Sharkovsky’s study, covered in bruises, mouth pooling with blood. He was not sure how long it had been since the first blow, but he thought it was still morning. His eyes had flickered towards the cold winter sun before snapping shut again. The light was too bright. 

Sharkovsky was sitting behind his desk, dealing with some business, utterly uninterested in Yassen breathing raggedly on the carpet. Yassen would leave when he was able to pick himself off the floor and Sharkovsky dismissed him. The former was optional. 

Sharkovsky had not found out about the conversation with Julia Rothman; that would have meant death. A very public one. Nor was this retribution for any complaints about Yassen’s conduct the previous evening. No; this was just a run-of-the-mill Vladimir-Sharkovsky-was-feeling-insecure-in-his-masculinity beating. Whatever Mr. Rothman had said over late-night drinks must have bruised Sharkovsky’s ego more than his guests’ gibes usually did. 

Yassen’s head was swimming; it was a sensation he was used to by now, the dissociation, the inability to focus. This had to be causing permanent damage, he thought distantly. Wasn’t there a term for it somewhere… he remembered reading it in a magazine long ago, a word for the affliction that had been common knowledge in boxing circles since the 1920s. Punchdrunk? With long-term neural damage and degeneration? The thought drifted away. 

He heard a loud shriek; it sounded simultaneously far away and like it was screaming directly in his skull. Five seconds or ten minutes later (time was funny that way when he received a particularly hard blow to the head, he’d found, event and memory flickering between molasses-slow and abrupt, gaping void), there was a bang that he dimly recognized as the doors of Sharkovsky’s study bursting open. He wanted to look, but his head felt so heavy. It hurt too much to lift it a millimeter from the floor. Even the small movement of his eyes sent pain shooting through his skull. 

Looking turned out to be unnecessary as someone swept past him, ignoring him completely. Through his blurred vision, he recognized it was a feminine someone. A familiar voice that took him a beat too long to connect to Julia Rothman spoke. Sharkovsky replied placatingly, then angrily. 

The voices kept growing louder and softer with no discernible consistency except for the pain it was causing in his head. Yassen picked out some words _… husband… killed… what kind of incompetent security… I must… payment…_ Sharkovsky muttering something about _hysterical women…_ And then Sharkovsky turned away and there was a loud bang that Yassen felt down to his bones followed by two more and Sharkovsky slumped and toppled behind his desk. Julia Rothman walked around the desk, looking at something on the ground carefully. A twitch of her arm and another bang. Then she turned towards Yassen. She looked… enraged, Yassen thought, before her expression started to dissolve into something else that he could not see because he could no longer focus on something so far away... 

The thought that Yassen had not fulfilled his end of the bargain drifted lazily through his mind. He hadn’t even gotten the chance before Sharkovsky had dealt the first blow. Here, lying bruised and bleeding on the rough carpet, he was useless to anyone. Especially Julia Rothman who, by the sound of it, had only just rid herself of her odious husband. She was a practical woman. He would be a dangerous burden. Hopefully, she would have enough pity to make his end quick. 

One moment Julia Rothman was standing by the desk, facing Yassen with her indecipherable expression, and the next she was crouched by his head, touching his face carefully. The light pressure of her fingertips barely registered. His jumbled thoughts felt even more muddled. What was she doing? She should leave. It was only a matter of time before the deaths were discovered. Why condemn herself with him? He dimly noticed her mouth moving. She was speaking to him. He focused. It was so difficult; he just wanted to sleep. 

“Yassen, are you injured badly anywhere else?” _No. Just the standard concussion, bruises, and cracked ribs._ Oh. He needed to say that out loud and found that he couldn’t. He shook his head with great effort. 

Oddly, Julia did not seem angry with him. How could that be? She had been angry, he was certain of it. He had failed. She should leave… 

Her mouth moved again. He belatedly recognized that she had asked him if he could walk. Could he? He wasn’t sure. He struggled to push himself up onto his arms. There. A step closer to getting off the ground. He felt a small hand take one of his and a slim arm wrap carefully under his shoulders and he was being pulled to his feet. The discomfort of being touched by someone else was overridden by the pain in his head which was, if anything, worse now, and accompanied by a wave of nausea. His legs didn’t buckle immediately, though. That was something. 

Yassen felt himself being guided out of the room. Most of his weight appeared to be supported by Julia Rothman, which didn’t seem quite right. Was she perhaps stronger than she appeared, or was he lighter than he’d thought? 

Down the hallway and a staircase. A door. Leading to another hallway, this one longer and narrower. Steps. Another door, this one leading outside; Julia pushed it open, but as she made to leave Yassen paused. He had noticed the study, for company, right next to the exit. The room was empty. Embers smoldered in the unattended fireplace… 

Minutes later, Yassen Gregorovich was slumped in the passenger seat of one of Sharkovsky’s nicer cars and sinking into a semi-conscious daze as Julia drove away, away, and the dacha went up in flames behind them. 

***

_Estrov. The village was in chaos; an accident at the plant, the army was coming, not fertilizer but anthrax… Yassen’s mother injecting him with some unknown substance, telling him to run, run… and then he was in the forest hiding from the soldiers while a young man—Leo—breathed shallowly, covered in sores… someone very far away was calling his name. Yassen. Yassen. That was not his name. What was it?_

“Yassen!” 

Yassen opened his eyes and the world swam into focus. A woman’s face. Julia Rothman. An unfamiliar car and… out the window, an unfamiliar landscape. 

“Where…?” 

“South of Moscow. A private airfield. My husband’s… Mr. Rothman’s plane is waiting for us. They understand there was an accident.” She had emphasized those last words so they must have been important. Why? Oh. Yes. Not so much of an accident after all. He nodded. _Ouch._

“I’ve told them you are a relative of Mr. Rothman. Sharkovsky was holding you hostage. He came to negotiate. Things escalated. I was able to get you out, as per his dying wishes. He was, after all, a very selfless man.” Her lips were pursed in a repressed smile. Yassen must have been a very distant relative indeed to the heavy-featured, dark-haired Mr. Rothman, and the Rothman he had met the night before was far from the generous man who spent his remaining few breaths securing his young relative’s rescue. There was some humor in that, he reflected. It would probably be funnier if he could just _think_ but his brain steadfastly refused to cooperate. 

“I am going to help you out of the car now and get you on the plane. Everything is going to be okay.” Julia Rothman spoke slowly and carefully, as though he might think otherwise. Why on earth… Oh. He caught the direction of her glance and saw that his bruised, torn knuckles were clenching the armrests of his seat so hard that they turned white. He consciously relaxed his grip. Better. 

Julia got out of the car and then opened his door and slowly, using the same care with which she had just spoken to him, helped him out of the car and onto the tarmac. He stumbled. She caught him and placed her arm under his shoulders again. 

***

He was in a seat—much wider and softer than he had expected in an airplane. Yassen blinked heavy lids. The floor was vibrating and there was a hum all around him. He belatedly realized that someone had placed a blanket around him. 

Julia Rothman was sitting in a seat across from him, poring over a pile of thick notebooks and files. She must have sensed his gaze, for she looked up and met his eyes.

“Sleep,” she told him. 

Yassen drifted. 

***

It was night and they were taxiing through a featureless airfield. Several men in suits stood a distance away from the airplane. 

Julia Rothman, who had remained composed the entire flight, carefully tucked the documents away as the plane came to a halt. 

Yassen watched in vague confusion and amusement as she took several breaths, rubbed her eyes vigorously, and, stepping off the plane, let out a loud wail. Through heaving sobs, she threw herself at the nearest suited man and began stammering in English. Yassen recognized the words “dead,” “tragedy,” and “bank account.” In Yassen’s opinion, she was laying it on a bit thick, but the men in the suits seemed suitably convinced—not to mention uncomfortable with how to deal with a loudly weeping woman. 

Yassen began to slowly make his way down the steps to the tarmac—some of his balance had returned during the flight, but not much—and a gray-haired woman in a white coat peeled away from the group to meet him. She said something in English that Yassen, of course, understood not a word of. 

“I can’t… Russian,” he said. His rudimentary English skills were not helped by his scrambled brain. 

The woman’s kind face softened even more. “Thank you for telling me,” she said, and he was surprised by how smoothly she transitioned into a language he could understand. Her Russian was even better than Julia Rothman’s, though still accented. German, perhaps? 

“I am Dr. Kohler. Mrs. Rothman has asked me to take care of your injuries. She also explained about the more difficult circumstances of Mr. Rothman’s accident.” The woman looked significantly towards the suited men, one of whom was awkwardly patting Julia on the back as she wept enthusiastically into his jacket. “I understand that she would like to keep those circumstances private. I will say nothing. You are safe here.” 

Safe. He did not trust that word, not anymore. Not ever again. But perhaps, a small voice said, perhaps things could get better. 

***

It had not taken long for Julia to take over all of her deceased husband’s business affairs. Yassen had never even seen the home she had shared with her husband; upon her arrival in the United Kingdom, she had immediately relocated to a quiet estate in the Welsh countryside. Yassen moved with her. He had nowhere else to go. First, for the sole purpose of recovery and rehabilitation from years of violence and malnourishment, but after a month she broached the subject of Yassen’s schooling. If nothing else, he would need an English tutor. 

As it turned out, Yassen had a facility for learning languages. His English tutor, a retired schoolteacher who Julia had lured out of retirement with the promise of an exorbitant hourly rate, was impressed by his progress and quickly moved on to add other subjects that had been neglected during his years on the street and in the dacha. And Dr. Kohler, who spent more time in the manor than in her own home those first few weeks, was teaching him German. 

***

“Resilient,” Yassen said. Delivered like a statement, though obviously a question. 

Dr. Kohler had used the foreign word to describe him while assessing his physical fitness. She had prescribed a series of workouts to improve his bone density and muscle tone and, Yassen strongly suspected, to keep his mind from dwelling on other things. It had been months since he had left Russia but his nightmares had not abated. 

“It is… hmm. Flexibility, strength, the ability to cope with difficult events and not let them impair your ability to function. Used in a physical and psychological sense.” 

There was no word in Russian that meant all those things at once, but he thought he understood. 

***

“Why now?” Yassen asked abruptly one morning. Sun streamed through tall windows onto a pale wooden table set with tea and various breakfast dishes. It was one of the increasingly rare times that Julia Rothman was staying at her Wales home. Usually, she was away on business. Enough time had passed for her to drop most of the grieving widow act and take the reins of what turned out to be a sizable empire. 

She tapped her fingers thoughtfully. Yassen knew this meant she was considering her response. 

“My husband was a businessman,” she said at last. “A very successful one. But a greedy bastard, like most successful businessmen are.” She paused. This was nothing new to Yassen. He knew that much about the late Mr. Rothman already. 

“I had been looking for a way out for a long time,” she continued. “My husband thought his control over me was absolute. In a way, it was. But his confidence allowed him to be incautious. A year ago, I saw a piece of correspondence that I was not supposed to see. Later, I overheard some of his phone calls. He was planning something. Something big. 

“Eventually, I heard whispers that certain people with some _very_ valuable connections—businessmen like my husband, but also intelligence agents, weapons manufacturers, high-up military personnel—were planning to combine forces into one criminal organization. Essentially, they were going to sell high-end criminal services to whoever was willing to pay. 

“I knew that if Mr. Rothman was allowed that kind of power, I would never be free. I could not take him and his financial backing out of this endeavor without retaliation; the wheels were already in motion, and even without my husband’s money, they would be able to come after me. So I decided to take him out and take his place on the board of the organization, which they have named SCORPIA.” 

Yassen couldn’t completely stifle his laugh. SCORPIA. Seriously? It sounded cartoonish. To his profound relief, Julia Rothman burst out into laughter too. “Ridiculous name, isn’t it? I had no hand in it.” 

That answered part of the question, but not what he really wanted to know. Yassen struggled to formulate his question. “But why…” he said eventually, “why then, in Russia?” 

Julia seemed to understand what he was getting at. Her face softened a little bit. “My husband was in Russia to persuade Sharkovsky to join SCORPIA. Their relationship was odd, but it was valuable enough that there was a chance Sharkovsky might retaliate if he suspected me in my husband’s death. And it was a good opportunity to make it seem as though there had been an altercation that led to them killing each other. 

“As for you,” she said. Yassen felt his chest tighten. He wasn’t sure what she was going to say. He doubted he would like it. “You were trapped, like me. And perceptive; you knew what Sharkovsky wanted before he could ask for it, and you could see how I felt about my husband before I said a word.” True. Yassen might not have understood the intricacies of that relationship, but he had seen immediately that Julia Rothman was unhappy. 

“You think on your feet,” she went on. “Even going into shock with a severe concussion, you had the presence of mind to notice the fire and help it along, destroying most of the evidence and covering our tracks.” 

Yassen was pretty sure he had mostly been thinking about wiping every trace of Vladimir Sharkovsky from the face of the earth. 

He was also not about to argue with Julia Rothman. 

“These are valuable traits that Sharkovsky was foolish to overlook.” 

Valuable traits were not being put to much use right now. She wanted something from him. Something more specific than potential. 

***

Eventually, Yassen began to accompany Mrs. Rothman—who had decided to keep her married name, another sharp kick to her deceased husband’s legacy—on her business trips. It would be educational, she explained, and a good opportunity for him to practice his English. Not that it needed much practice anymore. 

And not that he spent much time speaking, either. Yassen found that even without the threat of a thorough beating hanging over his head if he said the wrong thing, he preferred to speak as little as possible. That was fine with Julia; she did enough talking for the both of them. 

Yassen found comfort in his silence, content to sit back, blend in as though he were an unremarkable piece of furniture, and observe. 

The first time Yassen accompanied Mrs. Rothman, Julia took him out to a celebratory dinner once negotiations were successfully concluded. Italian, her favorite. Yassen didn’t have a favorite, except for a vague memory of caviar. He was still getting re-accustomed to the idea that food could be eaten for pleasure, not poison. 

Over the first course—a Caprese salad fresher than anything Yassen had ever tasted—Julia asked Yassen what he thought of the man conducting the other side of negotiations, Mr. Bertelli. He worked in olive oil. Yassen strongly suspected that the olive oil included drugs and explosives. 

Yassen took a moment to consider. Bertelli had dismissed Yassen immediately as Julia’s secretary. From the man’s leer, Yassen thought it was safe to conclude that he had assumed Yassen’s utility to Julia lay more in the bedroom than the boardroom. He had also directed that leer at Julia—along with several references to her late husband’s business acumen. 

“Bertelli underestimated your tenacity and your familiarity with his assets. He thought he could convince you that he was in a stronger position than he actually was and get the better end of the deal that way. He relied too much on physical intimidation and your high esteem for your late husband's 'superior abilities' to take care of the rest. He did not expect you to call his bluff.” 

Mrs. Rothman nodded approvingly. “And what did he think of you?” 

“That I am here to warm your bed,” Yassen said bluntly. Better than dancing in euphemism, granting it the same shame as if it were true. 

“Yes, I noticed. I didn’t see a reason to disabuse him of that ridiculous notion,” Julia said absently, though the tightness around her eyes and jaw betrayed her irritation. Being underestimated was a valuable asset. It was one she relied upon. But the more distasteful insinuations grated. 

“You did well,” she added. Yassen nodded. He knew he had. 

***

London. Shanghai. Brazil. A whirlwind of silent observation and careful dissection as Yassen began to grow more comfortable divining the hidden motives and secret wants of each person Julia Rothman came into contact with. Some were polite and respectful, some were downright rude but ultimately manageable, and a few point-blank refused to negotiate with Mr. Rothman's widow. The latter tended to disappear. Yassen was not sure how or by whom, but he couldn't bring himself to care, either. 

Less and less often did people make lewd comments or leer at Julia Rothman's taciturn assistant. She had eliminated many of those too difficult to do business with; those who remained had learned to respect or fear her. She seemed to have an uncanny ability to read motivations and minds. To pick up on meaningful microexpressions and tics without even glancing at them. 

Yassen’s was largely responsible for that. From his silent footsteps to his fluid, subtle movements, he made himself more invisible than he had ever been at Sharkovsky’s. His eyes were watchful, long lashes fluttering half-shut in seeming deference truly taking in every calculating glance, clenched fist, and tensed jaw. If there was a tell, he would find it. And there was always a tell.

***

Brazil was where it came to a head. 

They had been there a week. This time, it was a Brazilian couple—Marta and Antônia, no last name given—who ran a small but fast-growing technology empire and were as shrewd as Rothman and just as ruthless. (Julia liked them immensely.) 

Negotiations were fierce, but everyone at the table came away with a deal they were reasonably happy with, and the cheerful (albeit somewhat exhausted) goodbye seemed sincere on both sides. This last round of negotiations had lasted for nineteen hours, and all Yassen wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed. 

The exhaustion made Yassen much slower to react when a car twenty meters ahead of them erupted in a booming explosion. 

Their driver slammed the brakes, a shout of alarm. The shots came a moment later, slamming into bullet-proof glass that would not hold for long. Indeed; it shattered over the unfortunate driver a few seconds later as Julia and Yassen huddled in the backseat. Screams and flames danced around them. Finally, a lull. Julia opened the car door and slipped out, Yassen close behind. 

Support was behind them but pinned by bullets and fire and several wrecked cars. The driver and bodyguard in the front seat were dead. Security was good, but even the best were not infallible. Julia and Yassen were effectively on their own. They ran. 

A blur of buildings and people and fire, hot orange flames licking up to the deep blue night sky, and then they ran between buildings and straight into a man in a balaclava wielding a gun. He did not look surprised or angry. He looked intent. 

When he raised his gun, it was pointed not at Julia Rothman but where she had been a moment before, before Yassen had pushed her away. Yassen barely registered the squeeze of the trigger until he was thrown back with the force of the shot as the world dissolved into gray and black. 

***

Hot pinpricks on his face. Yassen blinked and opened his eyes to falling ash and drifting embers. He found he was lying on the ground. His chest felt like it was being crushed and he struggled to breathe. 

Coughing he forced himself to sit up. Touched his chest gingerly. And felt cold metal lodged into the body armor beneath, solid and whole. It hurt like hell and would leave a nasty bruise later, but it could have been much worse. 

Yassen then noticed the muffled thumps and shouts. Only a few seconds had passed; the man who shot him had made a rush for Julia Rothman immediately after, his gun forgotten on the ground. The man was significantly larger and clearly a professional, but he had not gone unscathed; blood dripped from four parallel finger-sized gouges on his neck. 

The man grabbed Julia's arm as she tried to twist away and slammed her against a burning car; she rolled away before the flames could touch her, but the hot metal brushed her uncovered neck. She shrieked with pain and rage. The man pulled out a long, gleaming knife. 

Yassen struggled to his feet, chest protesting. The man’s choice of weapon made it clear he had been hired to kill brutally, not efficiently. He had been foolish to drop the gun. 

The metal was heavy and cold in Yassen’s hand. Sharkovsky had kept guns; he had often threatened the staff with them. The smell of the oil and powder usually made Yassen nauseated, but now it was a tool in his hand. 

It was surprisingly easy to squeeze and fire. 

The man, whose knife arm was just coming down towards Julia, dropped like a stone. She looked up, breathing hard. When she saw Yassen, her expression relaxed, and, with one disgusted kick to the face of the dead man (for he was certainly dead; the hole in his skull was proof enough) she walked over to Yassen. It was only then that he noticed her clutching her forearm. 

“Sliced my arm when he fell,” Julia said succinctly. Closer, he could also see that the angry red burn mark on her neck was beginning to blister. 

“Who?” asked Yassen. 

Julia held out her hand and Yassen caught his breath. A tiny silver pin, in the shape of a scorpion, sat in the middle of her sooty palm. 

“The organization has not officially been founded yet, but many of the future board have assets and resources for this.” 

Only one would-be murderer seemed low for an assassination attempt if what Yassen knew of the prospective board was any indication. 

“A message,” he said at last. “To prove you are vulnerable and unworthy of the position. A show of power by one of the members looking to seize more control for himself.” 

Rothman was nodding. “Most likely, yes.” 

Yassen looked down at the corpse. “I killed him,” he said distantly. 

“Yes,” she replied, coughing in the smoky air. “You certainly did.” 

“I didn’t want to be a killer,” Yassen said quietly, almost to himself. 

“I know,” Julia told him. She spoke soothingly. Carefully. 

“I didn’t want to kill Sharkovsky, either.” Yassen’s voice was barely audible now. These were truths he had not even told himself yet. “When I thought he would kill me, or you would. It was a relief. That I would not have to become a killer.” 

“I know, Yassen.” Julia's voice was gentler than he had ever heard it. 

"But I did not care about this." It felt confusing. Odd. As though some vital part of a normal reaction had gone missing. 

“Mrs. Rothman!” The frantic voice of one of the bodyguards cut through the alley. The cavalry had arrived. 

“Here!” Julia Rothman shouted. Then she turned to Yassen. “Yassen,” she said. “Yassen, look at me.” He met her eyes reluctantly. “You saved me. You did well. The man would have killed you but for the vest. Nothing you did here was wrong.” 

In the chaos and shock and adrenaline haze, he had forgotten about that. The reminder made him more aware of the pain in his ribs and breathing. But it felt lighter somehow, too. He felt in his stomach and chest as though a great weight had been lifted. 

Julia saw it in his face and smiled. “You'll be alright, cariad bach. Let’s go home.” 

***

Almost a year after Vladimir Sharkovsky’s dacha burned to the ground, a meeting was held in Paris. After a delay brought about by the untimely death of Mr. Rothman and the unexpected initiative of his widow, the official foundation of SCORPIA was finally getting underway. 

Julia Rothman was one of the last to arrive. Everyone else had brought a bodyguard, and doubtless half of those in attendance had snipers positioned in nearby buildings in case anything went awry. Being the most recent victim of an assassination attempt (every board member had experienced at least one), Mrs. Rothman would certainly be bringing a retinue. 

However, Mrs. Rothman’s bodyguard looked different from the rest. A slight, silent figure who teetered on the edge of older child and younger man. His delicate features, long blonde lashes, and large blue eyes compounded the youthful countenance. He followed Julia Rothman like a slim, pale shadow. The other men—for Julia Rothman was the only woman in attendance—wondered a little at his appearance. They knew of the rumors that Julia Rothman had left the wreckage of the dacha with an injured Russian teenager, but it was still unclear why. Perhaps the woman was more sentimental than they had thought. He likely had his uses. Even though he looked as insubstantial as a ghost. 

One member of the newly-formed board, in particular, Dr. Three, eyed him with calculating curiosity. There was a blankness in the boy that seemed too aware to be blind trauma or terror. He was deferential to Rothman, but not outwardly fearful. Dr. Three would make a note to investigate that some other time. 

The quiet boy was all but forgotten as the meeting began and he retreated to a corner of the private room where it was being held. 

“Welcome, to SCORPIA,” said the man at the head of the table. His accent placed him somewhere in central or eastern Europe. It was far more pronounced than Yassen’s, who could already pass for a native English speaker unless somebody was paying very close attention. The speaker was large, domineering, and appeared to be trying to assert some kind of dominance by taking charge of the meeting. He introduced himself, though the rest of the room already knew who he was. Zeljan Kurst. The former head of the Yugoslavian police, known and feared for his enthusiastic use of excessively forceful interrogation methods before the country’s violent breakup. 

The introductions continued. Brendan Chase, former ASIS with a broad smile and even broader accent who appeared to have tried to tick every box on the Australian stereotype list in earnest. Dr. Three, diminutive, calm, pleasant. The smarter board members would realize that he was the most frightening person there. And on and on. 

From his shadowy corner, Yassen watched carefully and remained unnoticed. 

Julia Rothman was the last board member to introduce themselves. She was the most untested, the only woman—yet she had been the only one who had managed to assassinate any of the prospective members of the board. Allegedly, she had been responsible for the deaths of two. And survived an assassination attempt by one of them, though the circumstances remained murky and could be put down to good fortune. Luck was no replacement for experience or skill, but it was not a quality to be discounted. It would be foolish to dismiss her completely.

The meeting continued. Most of the board members behaved acceptably towards Julia and did not pay undue attention to Yassen after the meeting began. They would remain closely watched but undealt with for now. They were no immediate threat. 

From his silent vantage point, Yassen could see everyone. And he did not miss the flash of cruelty that passed over Zeljan Kurst’s face when he looked at Julia Rothman, far more pointed than the idle condescension of some of the other members of the new board. He did not miss how Kurst’s eyes lingered a little too long on the healing burn mark on her neck, nor how his glance fell on the thin silver line on her forearm, an irritated frown briefly shadowing his face.

Well. That was one question answered.

Yassen made a mental note for when he dissected the meeting with Julia later.

Kurst would be the first to go. 

**Author's Note:**

>  _Cyfaill cywir mewn ing y'i gwelir_ is a Welsh proverb that essentially means "A friend is known in adversity, like gold is known in fire."
> 
>  _cariad bach_ is a Welsh term of endearment meaning "little darling."
> 
> Nice abused child you've got there. It would be a shame if someone were to... steal him and burn your house to the ground.


End file.
